


Waiting

by ibonekoen



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-09-02 20:20:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8682088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ibonekoen/pseuds/ibonekoen
Summary: Charles hates hospitals, but a late night visitor makes it more bearable. (Post X-Men: First Class)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously I don't own X-Men or anything tied to them. If I did, it'd have a much happier ending and there'd be a lot more sex between Charles and Erik.
> 
> This is an old fic from a roleplay journal.

The first few days that Charles is in the hospital are hell. The doctors run countless tests, he's poked and prodded with more needles than he cares to think about and the five percent of the time his legs aren't numb, he's filled with searing pain and aches that have him gripping the sheets so tightly that his knuckles are white.

Moira, bless her, never leaves his side, and the kids flit back and forth. Havok looks uncomfortable in the sterile environment of the hospital, and Banshee's eyes are filled with sadness. Hank watches him with something akin to sympathy, but there's also a touch of scientific curiosity. Raven even visits once; Charles is surprised but touched.

The one person he wants to see more than anything has yet to appear though, and Charles is lying in the bed, propped up by pillows and focusing his narrowed stare on the door. It's almost as if he's willing the person in his thoughts to appear.

He draws in a surprised gasp as the door handle turns, and then his hopes are dashed as Moira enters, all soft smiles and sad eyes. She stays until visiting hours are over, hovering over Charles so much that he feels like screaming, but he doesn't; she's only trying to help, there's no sense taking his anger and frustrations out on her. She feels guilty enough knowing that she fired the bullet that pierced his spine.

At night, he's restless, the cheerfulness he'd feigned during visits all but gone, replaced by frustration and longing. He'd toss and turn if he weren't trapped in his body, the narrow rails of his bed keeping him confined as well.

He waits for that one person to come, and even as time stretches into the early morning hours and he's finally succumbing to sleep, there's still hope lingering on the edge of his consciousness.

He always wakes to something left on his bedside table, be it a tupperware container of cinnamon rolls (sticky, gooey and just the right amount of sweetness without being overbearing) or some other odd trinkets that never fail to bring a smile to his face. After one bite of a cinnamon roll, there's no doubt in his mind who they're from -- Erik.

He keeps telling himself that he's going to stay awake, that he's going to catch Erik in the act of leaving his gifts so that maybe, finally, they can talk. He even takes to sleeping during the day just so he can be rested enough for a nighttime vigil. He doesn't know how Eric does it, but on the nights when he is able to stay awake, the other man never appears.

On his last day at the hospital, as he's helped into his chair despite his protests that he could do it by himself, he casts one last forlorn look at the bedside table. It's empty, of course, except for the hospital-issued items that he's got no use for at home. The last tupperware container is safely tucked into his duffel bag, which is resting on his lap.

That night, as he collapses onto his bed after a struggle getting out of his chair (he'd refused the help of the children, waving them all away and sending them off to their rooms), he can't help but cast a wistful glance at the bedside table. He's cleared off a space near the base of the lamp, pushed the clock back to make room. Just in case.

When he wakes in the morning, he's disappointed to find the cleared space still empty.


End file.
